Review of For a Few Dollars More (1965) by Nick O — 25 Nov 2013

There goes the neighborhood. And the idea that guns are best in single barrels. Take pride in continuity of the fact that Sergio Leone settles for nothing less than the very best, to dig his teeth in the girth of a genre he knows and loves, and that he stores his biggest ideas for. The times start getting nailed down in "For a Few Dollars More", the stellar sequel to '64's heavily-influenced "A Fistful of Coins". The offspring of early-20th century tech geeks are tossing up new design innovation for weapons, and folks are finally wizening to the often limitless financial potential in a lifeless body when you aim sharp enough to drown their tell-tale hearts, like hippie freaks reading their munchies for foreign paranoia.

In a new branch of the Western woods, Clint Eastwood's Man With No Name comes to run smack into a bounty hunter named Col. Douglas Mortimer (Lee Van Cleef) shaking up residents in hot pursuit of bandit El Indio (Gian Maria Volonte). One beef: the Man's tracking the same scent. A team-up? Why not -- Mortimer keeps a mind for the impending, while No Name the storied traditional. So the latter (referred to in this film as Manco, meaning in Spanish "one-armed") breaks from jail an Indio crony and ever so dangerously slips into the gang as they prep a bank heist in El Paso, once mission impossible for the crew. It's all blueprint for a crackdown on Indo and his $10K government DOA; ditto for the godfather's gang, among whom include a young Klaus Kinski as a Mortimer left-standing jonesing to spill the beans on their charade.

But besides all that, what's the harm of dabbling in some foul play? Oh yeah, there's also the conscience rumor that Mortimer or No Name might use their undisclosed knowledge to over the shoulder finish each other off. It gives "For a Few Dollars More" a sense of dread that makes "A Fistful of Dollars" look innocent in comparison. Because in Leone's massive West, retribution sways in the endless shrapnel autopsy for blood like we're in Chinatown and there's no water. Mortimer and No Name masquerade on the same side in the creation of the tri-state's new vocational border, eyes peeled not for the obscurity of a gunshot but in the humane schizophrenia nearest the trigger. As usual, if shit were to blow, it wouldn't end at the tip of a single finger -- you're prey to a whole fistful.